


Before the Thunder

by dracoqueen22



Series: Mastermind [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM themes, Gen, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Bluestreak has always had a hidden talent, and now that the war is over, someone is very interested in his secret.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two years later, I finally came back to finish this series. Please enjoy!

It was with a skip in his step and anticipation in his spark that Jazz strolled through the corridors of the habitation wing, a grin on his lips that would have unsettled even the most stalwart of reformed Decepticon. Or supposedly at any rate. They were all of them, Autobot and Decepticon alike, reformed.   
  
Jazz counted room numbers as he went, finding that the rhythm of it made for an almost song-like cadence, and when he arrived at the one he sought, pressed the buzzer with an urgency that betrayed his eagerness. He shifted from foot to foot, a whistle on his lips.   
  
Some of that eagerness died, however, when the door opened and Jazz was met with a wave of field-led confusion. Judging also by the startled look on his face, Bluestreak had forgotten about their session for tonight, and that in itself was unusual enough to make Jazz concerned. Especially as Bluestreak sighed and palmed his face.   
  
“I’m sorry, Jazz. I completely forgot. Things have just been pretty crazy here.”   
  
“Things are always crazy, Blue,” Jazz replied with an easygoing grin, sliding into his investigative role like a second layer of armor. “It ain’t like ya to forget though. Frag, ya usually plan things down to the klik.”   
  
A tired smile curved Bluestreak’s lips before he stepped aside, gesturing Jazz into his quarters. “I do my best. I want to be a good partner. That’s the reason I do that. Plus, for anxiety’s sake, I know a lot of mechs like to know what’s going to happen ahead of time. It’s about trust.”   
  
“I know, Blue. It’s okay. I wasn’t complainin’.”   
  
The door slid shut behind Jazz, tucking him into the quiet dim of Bluestreak’s quarters. Only a single lamp lit the main room, bathing the furniture in quiet shadows. Soft instrumental music played from the stereo system. There was a mound of fluffy pillows draped in soft blankets in the middle of the room.  
  
Bluestreak’s calm down routine, Jazz knew it well. Concern notched into a higher level.   
  
“Something up?” Jazz asked after he turned in a slow circle. He’d known something was wrong from the moment Bluestreak hadn’t appeared at his door at the appointed time, and hadn’t commed Jazz to let him know he was running late. Blue was many things, but irresponsible was not one of them.   
  
He’d assumed that he’d confused where they were supposed to meet, and made his way to Bluestreak’s quarters instead.   
  
Their plans for the evening, he now knew, were not going to happen. It was unfortunate, but Bluestreak couldn’t Dom if he had something else on his mind. It wasn’t safe for either of them.   
  
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Bluestreak sighed and dropped down into his pile of comfort, sensory panels flicking aside at the last second to prevent a jarred hinge. His biolights glowed eerie red in the dim of the room. “I think maybe I’m going mad or I’m getting as paranoid as Red or maybe I’m inventing a problem because I’m not adapting to the peace.”   
  
Jazz blinked behind his visor and plopped his aft on the low table near Bluestreak’s mound. Usually this would garner him a chastisement, but this time, nothing. Something was really wrong. So he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and he pinned Bluestreak a look. Not sub to dom, but former commanding officer to former subordinate.   
  
“Ya ain’t crazy, Blue. What’s going on?”   
  
Bluestreak scrubbed at his chevron. “I don’t know. I thought I was imagining it at first, this feeling of being watched. It was only every now and again, and I figured, I was just antsy cause we were all on pins and needles after the signing of the first treaty, you know?”   
  
Jazz nodded to show he was listening.   
  
Bluestreak continued, “But it’s getting more and more frequent. I can’t ever see anybody looking at me and no one’s following me, but my panels are twitching, and I just feel like I’m being watched. It’s a prickle in my spinal strut and an itch in my processor.” He gnawed on his bottom lip and gave Jazz a hopeful look. “It’s not your team practicing on Praxians again, is it?”   
  
“I wish it were, Baby Blue.” Anger stirred, rising in the pit of Jazz’s internals.   
  
If it wasn’t his team, then there was only one other mech who could be responsible for lurking around Bluestreak where he couldn’t see them. Bluestreak had been trained by Smokescreen to detect spies, and by Prowl to be aware of his surroundings. He was one of the most difficult mechs to sneak up on, outside of Jazz’s own unit. No casual mech could do it.   
  
And it wasn’t Jazz’s team.   
  
Bluestreak’s engine gave a thin whine, a reedy sound of stress. “Of course it isn’t,” he said, hands gripping the back of his neck. “You’d give me warning. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. You wouldn’t do that to me.” He ex-vented, sharp and hot.   
  
Jazz leaned forward, resting a hand on Bluestreak’s knee. “Blue, look at me.”   
  
Optics shifted toward him, flickering around the edges. Bluestreak’s field was a jittery mess, and his armor had started clicking as it settled around his seams. Jazz hadn’t seen him like this in a while. Not since the height of the war, when they weren’t sure anyone was going to survive. Like when Bluestreak had been taken by the Cons, one of Megatron’s numerous bids to trade for energon, and he’d come back to them beaten and damaged, but was never willing to say if it was because of the battle, or if some of the Cons had gotten bored during guard duty.   
  
“I’m going to figure this out for ya. I promise. You don’t have anythin’ to worry about, okay? I’m goin’ to take care of it.”   
  
Bluestreak loosed a shuddery ventilation and offered a smile that didn’t reach his optics. “I should’ve just come to you first. I know that. I just didn’t want you to think...”   
  
“That you were losing it? Never.” Jazz squeezed Bluestreak’s knee and extended his field, offering warmth and comfort. “It’s my turn to take care of you for a change. Alright?”   
  
A small laugh spilled out of Bluestreak. “Alright.” Some of the tension eased out of his frame, his doorwings settling. He had every confidence Jazz would find an answer.   
  
Meanwhile, Jazz buried the fury infesting his spark way down. He hid it behind a smile, one Bluestreak could probably read, but that was the level of trust between them. The anger would be his fuel.   
  
It carried him out of Bluestreak’s quarters a few hours later, after he’d spent some time cuddling with Blue on the mound of comfort, trying to soothe the distressed rattles in Bluestreak’s field. He’d left Bluestreak snoozing in the pile, fleece blanket tucked around his frame, music quieted to the lowest setting meant to calm.   
  
The anger propelled Jazz two streets over, into the residential district that was more Decepticon than Autobot, even though said divisions technically weren’t supposed to exist anymore. Like, however, called to like. And no matter the iron-clad treaty, trust wasn’t so easy to gain.   
  
It sounded like a fairy tale almost.   
  
Jazz went to the highest hab-suite in the highest reconstructed tower, which had nearly a three-hundred sixty degree view of the city they’d chosen to rebuild in. It was the kind of place that belonged to nobility and high caste, ages ago. Now it was a nest for Megatron’s favorite spymaster.   
  
You could take the war away from the spymaster, but not the need to spy and surveil.   
  
Jazz and Soundwave had been playing this game of tag for centuries. It had been a challenge, to creep around one another, spying without being seen, getting into places they shouldn’t. By all rights, Soundwave’s suite should be the most heavily guarded building in the entire city.   
  
But maybe he’d been a little too busy spying on cute sniper’s just trying to get on with their lives. Maybe Soundwave had been too focused on his stalkery behavior to pay attention to security, because Jazz broke into Soundwave’s home with barely any effort.   
  
Alright, so it took him ten minutes to shatter the encryption, but that was beside the point. Jazz invited himself inside, confirmed no one was home, rummaged about in Soundwave’s storage room and snagged a box of candies.   
  
He sat down on the couch, propped his feet on the table – Bluestreak would have flogged him for that, damn Soundwave, Jazz missed out on some good whipping this evening – and waited. He turned on the vidscreen, found a music broadcast channel, and turned on some raging good beats. He ate two boxes of candies, the anger broiling and roiling inside of him, before someone finally came home.   
  
Jazz didn’t move, though he tensed, defensive protocols spinning into action. It was never easy to gauge Soundwave’s reactions. He might shoot first and ask questions later via a little mind-probing.   
  
The door opened and lights flooded the main room, illuminating Jazz on the couch. He popped another fizzy candy into his mouth, gaze pinned on Soundwave as he slipped inside and the door closed behind him. Jazz didn’t see any symbiotes, but that didn’t mean some of the brats weren’t tucked away inside Soundwave’s dock.   
  
Jazz casually lifted a remote, clicked the vidscreen to mute. He tossed said remote onto the table, scraped his feet against the edge of the table, and narrowed the light of his visor.   
  
“So,” Jazz said, enunciating the word with a pop of his lips. “Wanna tell me why you and yer little critters are stalking my boy Blue?”   
  
Soundwave’s visor hardened. He stared at Jazz, pose relaxed, but there was menace coiled in it. He didn’t have his sonic cannon – terms of the treaty, no one was allowed to walk around visibly armed. His sonic cannon was in his berthroom. Jazz had already moved it elsewhere, just in case Soundwave got any ideas.   
  
“Business mine,” Soundwave finally answered, vocals as steady as a cucumber and no hint of surprise in his field.   
  
Cold as ice, that one.   
  
Jazz popped another candy into his mouth and noisily crunched on it. “When it concerns my mechs, it becomes my business, too.” He crossed his ankles and tilted his head. Challenging.   
  
Soundwave hadn’t moved from in front of the door. “Bluestreak not yours.”   
  
“He is where it counts.” Jazz tossed the empty box onto the table and folded his hands over his abdomen. The fact that his hands were visible was a small concession. “Tell me why.”   
  
Silence.   
  
Soundwave stared at him as though he had lasers buried behind his visor. He shifted his weight, barely noticeable, but it was telling.   
  
Was Soundwave nervous? No, it couldn’t be. Ashamed? A stretch.   
  
Jazz sighed and abruptly sat up, his feet hitting the floor. “Alright then.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “Guess I’ll just stroll right into Prowl’s office and let him know you’re violatin’ the terms of the treaty. He’s been itchin’ to catch a Con in the act. This’ll make his night.”   
  
“Negative.” A single step forward. Panic?   
  
Jazz rolled his neck and pinned Soundwave a look. “Then tell me.”   
  
Soundwave’s weight shifted again. There was a flash of something in his field, there and gone again. He looked, of all things, like he was fidgeting. Which was not something Jazz had ever attributed to the stoic communications officer. Oh. Jazz had stumbled into something tasty here.   
  
“Interest… personal,” Soundwave finally said, as though he’d had to force the words out, through a strangled vocalizer.   
  
“Oh? Now I’m listening.” Jazz propped his hands on his hips, but didn’t sink back into the couch yet. The implied threat to play tattletale was still present. “Tell me more.”   
  
Soundwave’s hands pulled in and out of fists. Another tell. Someone was off their game tonight. “No.”   
  
Jazz laughed. “Oh, Sounders, that’s not how this game is played. You got an interest in my mech Blue and I gotta know why. I ain’t walking out that door still I get a satisfactory answer.” He tilted his head, let light flicker across his visor. “So either you tell me what I want to know, or my next stop is Prowl’s office. I know he’s still there. Silly mech always burns the midnight oil.”   
  
Soundwave’s engine gave a little hitch. Indecision wrote into every clamped piece of armor. In the way Soundwave held himself, still as a statue. He stared at Jazz as though he could intimidate by glare alone. Yeah, that probably worked on a lot of mechs, who knew about Soundwave’s capabilities and feared them.   
  
It didn’t work on Jazz. He just grinned, making sure to show denta. He was the shadow that crept in the night. He was the monster in the closet and under the berth. He wasn’t afraid of an emotionally stunted block of non-personality.   
  
“I’m waiting,” Jazz said, singsong. Because he had to push. That was what made it fun. Maybe it was a risk. Maybe Soundwave would do something drastic, though that seemed more Starscream’s style. Soundwave was far too rational for heat of the moment actions.   
  
Still.   
  
A cornered mechanimal was a dangerous one. And Jazz had the feeling he’d trapped one pretty piece of prey.   
  
“Bluestreak talented,” Soundwave finally said.   
  
Jazz almost laughed. “Yeah, I know he is.” His lips curled into a smirk because he knew it. He fragging knew it.   
  
Pieces fell into place, like a puzzle filling in from the inside out. Dots connected. Plans drew. Victory rang like a bell in the back of his processor.   
  
Like called to like. No fragging wonder. He and Soundwave had always played this game, and now there was a prize on the line. The prize wasn’t Jazz’s to win, otherwise he would have had it already. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it harder on Soundwave. Or easier, depending on what would be more entertaining.   
  
Bluestreak was his, in the berth or out of it. It wasn’t a matter of ownership. It was a matter of protecting the things he loved. And like the Pit was Jazz going to let some two-bit Decepticon lay hands on his Blue without knowing for sure Soundwave deserved it.   
  
His grin widened even further. Jazz dropped his hands and strode around the edge of the low table, barely making a whisper of sound.   
  
“Ahh, I get it now,” he purred as Soundwave watched him, lights shifting behind his visor, like he thought he might get attacked. “It’s okay, Sounders. You’re an emotionally and socially stunted machine. Happens to the best of us. But even machines have desires, don’t they? Even someone like you.”   
  
Jazz looked Soundwave up and down. He barely came up to Soundwave’s chassis, frag that height difference, and Soundwave was taller than Bluestreak even. More massive as well. But Jazz could easily imagine Soundwave on his knees. Could imagine the straps wound around his frame.   
  
Submission would suit him.   
  
“The war’s pretty much over you know,” Jazz continued, ignoring the silence. That was the game. “Instead of stalking him, you could try having a conversation.”   
  
Soundwave said nothing, but the sudden burst of heated ex-vent said it all. Jazz almost laughed again. A conversation. Right. Soundwave was known for being a stunning conversationalist.  
  
Then again, Blue was awful good at filling the silence. Maybe they were better suited for each other than immediate appearance suggested.   
  
Jazz leaned in closer, looking up the length of Soundwave’s frame, and poked him in the middle of his undecorated dock. “Tell you what. Not that I think you don’t already know, but humor me.”   
  
He smirked and leaned back, noticing with satisfaction as Soundwave’s defensive armor clamp eased. Silly mech. Just because he leaned back didn’t mean Jazz wasn’t any less dangerous. Clearly this topic had thrown Soundwave off his game.   
  
“Blue’s working tomorrow night,” Jazz said as he planted his hands back on his hips. “Swing by for a chat. Ya never know. It could be a dream come true.” He flashed his visor in a wink.   
  
Soundwave’s ventilations stuttered. “Jazz offering assistance?” He couldn’t have sounded more surprised if he tried.   
  
“I got a thing for lost causes.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Besides, like you said, Blue’s not mine. Not the way you want him to be.”   
  
If his smile looked like a predator with prey between its teeth, well, Jazz wasn’t too upset by that. He had Soundwave exactly where he wanted him. But most of all, he had an answer for Bluestreak.  
  
Jazz knew he was right.   
  
Soundwave would be there tomorrow. He’d find the courage to set foot into an establishment he’d only seen from a distance, because there was a hunger inside of him. One that no energon could sate.   
  
Jazz knew that hunger. It broiled in his tanks, too. Bluestreak couldn’t be the fuel to fully sate him. Jazz was still looking for his. But maybe Soundwave would get lucky. He only had to be brave enough to find out.   
  
Jazz rapped the back of his knuckles against Soundwave’s dock. “I’ll see you there, Sounders,” he said cheerfully and slipped around the communications mech, inviting himself to use the door to make his escape.   
  
Soundwave didn’t give chase. No, he had far too much on his processor for that.   
  
Tomorrow would tell.   
  


~

  
  
_Baby Blue,_  
  
I looked into your little problem, and I’m happy to report that it’s been handled. No more shall you be stalked. You’re not in any danger, Scout’s honor. Well, except maybe to your virtue, hah. But I know you can take care of yourself.   
  
You got a secret admirer, Blue. I convinced him to say hello so keep an optic out. And if he doesn’t, well, I’ll handle it. Prowl might get to arrest himself a Decepticon, and you know how much he’s been looking forward to that. I got your back, darling. Anytime. Just give me a ring, and I’ll be there.   
  
Hugs and kisses!   
  
~Jazz.  
  


***

 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a certain ambient noise present in any bar, the volume of it varying by patronage.  _Visages_  was a mid-range lounge, casual conversation just low enough to hear the music pumping through the speakers, and the clink of glass on tabletops. So when silence descended throughout the space, it was enough to make Bluestreak’s armor crawl.   
  
He finished mixing a Toxic Turnover and turned around, optics and sensory panels both scanning the bar to find the reason why. When Bluestreak found it, standing by the door awkwardly like he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, he almost dropped the finished drink.   
  
What in Unicron’s rusted undergarments was Soundwave doing here? He wasn’t known for socializing or going to bars. And yes,  _Visages_  was welcoming to all types, former Autobots and Decepticons and Neutrals. But the only member of command of any faction to ever pass through those doors was Jazz, and no one blinked twice at that. It was just who Jazz was.   
  
Soundwave was, as Jazz would say, a whole different kettle of fish.   
  
Bluestreak watched, as did everyone else in the bar, as Soundwave gathered his wits about him and strode through the gawking crowd as if it didn’t bother him. He made a beeline for the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat himself carefully. If he noticed that the nearest mechs to the stool abruptly grabbed their drinks and made for an empty booth, he didn’t show it.   
  
Bluestreak worked his intake and planted a smile on his lips. He slid the Toxic Turnover down to Sideswipe and grabbed the towel from his shoulder, hiding his nervousness by wiping his hands.   
  
“Welcome to  _Visages_ ,” he said cheerfully as he approached Soundwave, given that his other bartender seemed to have vanished the moment Soundwave appeared. Knew how to clear a room, he did. “What can I get for you?”   
  
Soundwave stared at him for a long moment before he rested his arms on the counter. His mouthguard slid open, baring the lower half of his face to the room.   
  
Bluestreak froze and would only later admit to staring under torture. Soundwave… was pretty. He’d imagined a scarred, horrifying visage. And yes, there were scars. Small ones, like little knifemarks around Soundwave’s lips and cheeks, but they didn’t detract from his appearance. His lips were ones Bluestreak could easily imagine sliding his thumb between. His cheeks tinged a pale blue as if he were blushing.   
  
“--please.”   
  
Soundwave gave his order, and Bluestreak hadn’t heard it. He was too busy ogling. He forced himself back into awareness, coughing a ventilation.   
  
“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said with forced cheer, because now everyone in  _Visages_  was staring for an entirely different reason. “The noise, you know. What did you want?”   
  
Soundwave shifted on the stool, as if he felt the weight of the stares. “Maccadam’s Special.”   
  
“Simple enough. I’ll get right to it.” Bluestreak grinned a service-grin and whipped around, trying to hide the heat in his cheeks. Damn but Soundwave was pretty.   
  
And it was just weird that he was here. In a bar. Ordering engex. Granted, the Maccadam’s Special was the most basic, least intoxicating drink on the menu, outside of a Weak Spritzer, but still. Soundwave wasn’t one known to desire socializing, and he hadn’t even brought any of his cassettes with him.   
  
Did he even have friends?   
  
Behind Bluestreak, the ambient noise picked up again, now low murmurs rather than the excited conversation it had been before. It was better than the silence, but only just. If Soundwave realized the effect he had on the patrons, he didn’t show it.   
  
There was a treaty, so Soundwave wasn’t here to attack. Or at least Bluestreak hoped not. Soundwave was pretty loyal to Megatron, and was the last ‘Con Bluestreak expected to go against Megatron’s wishes. He wasn’t disallowed from coming into  _Visages_  either so he had every right to be here. It was just… weird.   
  
Bluestreak poured the Special into a tall glass and turned back toward Soundwave, sliding it across the counter for him. “Should I, uh, start a tab or…?” He left the question open-ended, hoping to get more conversation out of the mech.   
  
“Tab unnecessary,” Soundwave replied and offered a cred chip to Bluestreak. “Change unnecessary also.”   
  
“Uh, thanks. I guess.” Bluestreak slid the chip into the reader at the register, and nearly boggled at the tip Soundwave offered him.   
  
That was an absurd amount of creds. What the frag was Soundwave’s angle here? Well, his drinks were covered for the rest of his night either way.   
  
The door opened again, with a loud bang, and Bluestreak nearly jumped.   
  
“The fun has arrived!” Jazz announced loudly as he strode inside, hands in the air and a grin on his lips.   
  
His arrival shattered the tension. Or cracked it any rate. More of the ambient noise returned, almost to a normal level. It was as if the patrons felt safer around Soundwave now that Jazz was here.   
  
Jazz, who made a beeline to the bar, pulled out an empty stool beside Soundwave, and clambered up into it. “Sounders! Look at you, socializing with the common folk. I’m proud of you.” He slapped Soundwave’s shoulder, and Bluestreak’s vents caught in his intake.   
  
Soundwave cringed, his mouth turning downward before he buried it behind his glass. He subtly inched away from Jazz, not that it made much difference.   
  
“Hey Baby Blue,” Jazz continued as he rapped his hands on the counter in a playful beat, his visor bright and his grin a little too forced. “How’s it hanging?”   
  
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Why do I feel like you’re up to no good right now?” He might have put a touch of a growl to his vocals, enough for Jazz to know he meant business.   
  
His former commander, often lover, and occasional sub, just smirked and leaned an elbow on the counter, propping his chin into his hand. “I am nothing but good, sweetspark.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “Can I get a Pretty Prime?”   
  
Bluestreak snorted. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Optimus about that.” He rolled his optics and turned back to the cabinet, sifting through the bottled brews for the one Jazz favored. “I don’t think he’s your type.”   
  
“And sadly, he’s taken.” Jazz sighed theatrically. “What’s a mech gotta do to get a hot date around here? A thousand or so mechs on Cybertron and not a single love match to be found. Isn’t that right, Sounders?”   
  
Jazz jostled Soundwave with his elbow, and Soundwave’s shoulders hunched. He curled around his drink, hardly touched, mouth twisted into a moue of aggravation.   
  
Bluestreak pulled the cap off the brew and handed it to Jazz. “Maybe that’s because you’re not looking in the right places.”   
  
Jazz barked a laugh. “You’re probably right about that, Blue. But hey, Sounders. Get this. If there’s someone around here who has no problem getting a date, it’s Baby Blue. Mechs love ‘im. He’s even got a stalker!”   
  
Bluestreak sighed. He hadn’t believed it when Jazz sent him that message late last night. Of course, Bluestreak knew he’d been surveilled by someone, but a secret admirer? It sounded absurd, like some cheesy romantic comedy. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jazz knew better, Bluestreak would have thought it a tasteless joke.   
  
“Can we not talk about that?” he asked as he wiped the bartop with his rag, though it wasn’t at all dirty. “I don’t like thinking about some creep out there following me.”   
  
He glanced down the bar, but Riptide had emerged from wherever he’d been hiding, and was now taking care of the other patrons. It was a slow night. Which meant Bluestreak could sit here and chat with Jazz if he wanted, as long as he helped anyone who came around.   
  
Not like Mirage could pitch a fit anyway. They co-owned this place. Bluestreak had as much say in how it was run as Mirage did.   
  
“Fair enough.” Jazz slurped down half of his brew and lounged against the bar, giving Bluestreak a dopey grin. “But you know I’d never let anyone hurt ya, right? It don’t matter who they are.”   
  
Bluestreak blinked. That was an oddly… intense statement, backed up by the intense glimmer in Jazz’s visor, and the reach of his field. This was as much Fun Time Jazz as it was Third-in-Command Jazz.   
  
“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “I know.” He slung the towel back over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Both of you.” He cut a gaze toward Soundwave, but the mech was staring into his glass like it held the answers to the universe.   
  
Weird.   
  
Bluestreak shrugged and headed to the other end of the bar, where a rowdy trio of Neutrals were being obnoxious in their demands for more booze. Nope. They were cut off. Bluestreak didn’t need customers like them. Factions didn’t matter. Behavior did.   
  
They complained, of course they did, but they dragged their afts out of his bar. Let them stagger on toward  _Swerve’s_. That mech served anyone so long as they had creds. Then again, if Bluestreak had a bouncer like Whirl, maybe he’d tolerate the afts more, too.   
  
As the three idiots schlepped out, a horde of new customers came rolling in, a crew of some kind, recently released from shift. They looked tired and thirsty, not the sort to be rowdy, but the sort to sit in a tired clump and spend lots of creds.   
  
Well, there went the idea of loitering around Jazz and having a good conversation. Booming business was a good thing though. And it would keep his mind off of his “secret admirer”.   
  
Bluestreak planted a smile on his face and moved to greet the new customers, preparing himself for a long night. A good one at least. No one here was the sort to cause problem. Not even Soundwave apparently.   
  
All night, Soundwave was seeming content to sit at the bar and sip at his one drink. He didn’t interact with anyone, and the other patrons gave him a wide berth. Except for Jazz, who seemed to delight to carry on a one-sided conversation with Soundwave.   
  
Up until Wheeljack came inside and gave Jazz such an exasperated look that Bluestreak felt a pang of sympathy. It was a look he often gave Jazz himself, especially when Jazz was being very disobedient. Which was often the case as Jazz enjoyed being punished.   
  
Jazz left; Soundwave lingered. Alone, for the most part.   
  
Engex gave mechs courage, not that Sideswipe needed any encouraging. He spied the vast bubble of emptiness around Soundwave and invited himself into one of the stools, half-soused as he babbled at Soundwave. Who bore it all in patient stride. Even as Sideswipe got more than a little, ah, handsy.   
  
Bluestreak was two kliks from wandering over to save Soundwave, as all good bartenders do, when Sunstreaker showed up like a mech in sparkling gold armor. He hadn’t even needed to search the crowd to find his brother, stalking straight toward the bar with exasperation twisting his pretty lips.   
  
Such a shame they hadn’t worked out, Bluestreak sighed to himself. Too much dom in the both of them. While it was occasionally fun to wrestle about in the berth, it was exhausting in the long run.   
  
Sunstreaker exchanged a few words with Soundwave, perhaps deigning to apologize for his brother’s behavior, before he retrieved his drunk twin and dragged Sideswipe out. No one else dared approach Soundwave. Maybe that was for the best.   
  
Bluestreak kept half an optic on Soundwave, making sure he didn’t need anything else, but for the most part, he stayed focus on his work. They were busy enough that both he and Riptide were kept hopping, and they ran out of several necessary supplies before closing time came around.   
  
Exhaustion tugged at every cable and every strut. But it was the good kind of fatigue. The kind that signaled a job well done. It was better than war fatigue, staying up long past the limits of his processor, running on little energon and even less recharge. Living moment to moment, stress to stress, waiting for the floor to crack.   
  
Riptide escorted the last of the patrons to the door as Bluestreak moved back behind the bar, taking stock of their depleted resources. The soft clink of a glass being placed on the bar attracted his attention. He blinked and turned around, optical ridges raised as he realized that one customer had lingered.   
  
Soundwave.   
  
“You know we’re closed now, right?” Bluestreak asked as he swept up the empty glass from the counter and slid it into the wash bin. “That’s usually the point when the customer leaves.”   
  
Soundwave had yet to restore his battlemask, and another blush stained his cheeks. Embarrassed? Talk about weird. Bluestreak didn’t even know Soundwave could be embarrassed. He was the ice man, as Jazz put it.   
  
“Assistance offered,” Soundwave said, and Bluestreak tried his best not to watch those pretty lips shape each word.   
  
“For what? Last time I checked,  _Visages_  doesn’t have any need for a telepath, and Blaster already hooked us up with a state of the art sound system.” Bluestreak gathered more empty cups as he talked.   
  
Soundwave shifted on the stool. “Cleaning needed.”   
  
“You mean the bar? That’s what Riptide is for.” Bluestreak chuckled at his own joke, ignoring the derogatory gesture Riptide threw at him from across the room.   
  
“I’m just picking up the chairs. I gotta date tonight, boss.” Another chair clattered to a tabletop. “I told you that earlier.”   
  
Oh. Right. He had.   
  
Primus, Bluestreak was losing his mind. First, he had forgotten his session with Jazz. That was horrible enough.   
  
Bluestreak waved a hand. “Right, you’re right. Sorry, Rip. I forgot. Go on. I’ll take care of this.”   
  
“You sure?”   
  
“Yeah. Seems I got a volunteer anyway.” Bluestreak jerked a thumb toward Soundwave, who said nothing as he watched the interchange.   
  
Riptide frowned. His gaze shifted to Soundwave in concern, but Bluestreak waved him on. Seriously. He could handle Soundwave, even if the mech was acting weird. He doubted Soundwave would do anything to upset Megatron anyway. Besides, he had Jazz and Prowl both on speed-dial.   
  
And what was it Jazz had said? Prowl was itching to arrest a Decepticon. He’d probably show up here, guns blazing and handcuffs spinning from a finger before Bluestreak could get out the last few bleeps of a distress call.   
  
“Go! If it’s with who I think it is, you don’t want to be late.” Bluestreak shooed him on, flapping his mesh cloth in Riptide’s direction.   
  
Riptide hesitated again, but love conquered all apparently, because he grinned and shot Bluestreak a thumbs up. “Thanks, boss. You’re the best.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “Yeah, I am.”   
  
Riptide saluted and scuttled out, leaving Bluestreak alone with Soundwave in the odd quiet of the bar. The music had been cut off – a sign to the customers that the lounge was closed.   
  
“He’s been seeing Pipes for a while,” Bluestreak said, to fill the silence, as he snagged a bin from behind the counter and moved around the bar, gathering up abandoned cups and cubes. “They’re the cutest couple, I swear. Pipes is head over heels, and I think Riptide likes that Pipes looks at him with stars in his optics.”   
  
He heard a scrape, and looked over to see Soundwave rising from his stool. He watched for a moment as Soundwave moved to pick up chairs and put them on the tables, as Riptide had been doing, all without a word. He was serious about helping apparently.   
  
Bluestreak shrugged and got back to work. He wasn’t about to turn down free labor. Especially since he’d been left on his own. Riptide and Pipes though, they deserved that opportunity. With the war over, everyone deserved to capture what happiness they could, now that there was less chance of losing it.   
  
“I think that’s what everyone is doing now,” Bluestreak continued, because he couldn’t abide by silence, and Soundwave wasn’t complaining. “We’re all allowing ourselves to have some kind of life. Mostly anyway. I’ll bet even you are.”   
  
Silence.   
  
“I know running a bar isn’t exactly the most glamorous thing to do in a post-war world, but I think it suits me.” Bluestreak dumped all the dirty dishes into the washer and arranged them. “I can’t imagine there’s anything else I could do. I didn’t have any skills when they pulled me out of the rubble. All I know now is killing. That’s no good in a post-war world.”   
  
He started up the auto-washer and grabbed a spray bottle and a mesh cloth. He started to wipe down counters, sweeping metal flakes to the floor.   
  
“Not much use for a sniper now. So I thought, what else can I do? What’s easy enough to learn? What use is there for a mech who only knows war and talks too much and still can’t sleep without a light on. Oh, sorry. Recharge. Then Mirage suggested this. He thought it would be good for me. I figured I’d give it a shot.”   
  
Bluestreak shrugged and smiled softly. “Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. I listen as well as I talk and everyone likes a chatty bartender. It’s a good job.” He paused as he concentrated on scrubbing at a stain. “It’s a pretty good life. All things considered. Even if some weirdo is stalking me.”   
  
“Apologies.”   
  
Bluestreak blinked and looked up. Soundwave had finished lifting the chairs and now stood in front of the bar, right where Bluestreak was standing. He’d found the broom and dustpan, too, and clutched the handles of both as though they were a lifeline.   
  
“For helping me close? That’s a pretty silly thing to apologize for,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. Soundwave towered over him, but there was something in the way the mech held himself back that kept him from being threatening.   
  
“Negative.” Soundwave’s head dipped a little, the light of his visor shifting away. His engine warbled an odd sound. “Bluestreak… interesting.”   
  
Bluestreak stared. Was Soundwave admitting to what Bluestreak thought he was admitting to?   
  
He braced his hands on the edge of the counter and stared up at Soundwave, narrowing his optics. “You want to tell me why you came here tonight?”   
  
Soundwave’s lips pressed together. His field was nonexistent, giving Bluestreak nothing to work with. His armor had clamped to his frame, as though he expected to be attacked, which was ridiculous. There was no one else here, and Bluestreak was hardly a match for Soundwave if it came down to it.   
  
His behavior was all too telling. Maybe he and Jazz were a lot more alike than they cared to admit.   
  
Bluestreak squared his shoulders. He lifted his chin. “Let me rephrase,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “Tell me why the frag you’re here.” He didn’t leave it as a question. He made it a command.   
  
Soundwave’s intake bobbed. “… Partnership desired.”   
  
… What? Was he serious?   
  
Bluestreak stared at Soundwave, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, who suddenly snapped his battlemask shut. Out of embarrassment? Out of a sense of vulnerability? Both?   
  
He tilted his head and rapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. He shouldn’t be so surprised, though that Soundwave would choose him of all mechs, that was the confusing part. And also, he could have sworn Soundwave was involved with Megatron. Though it did explain why he’d felt like he were being watched.   
  
“Just to clarify, you mean that you want a relationship with me?” Bluestreak asked, careful to keep his tone firm. Soundwave seemed to respond best to that firmness. “And not one that involves business, but something personal. Something you think you can only get from me.”   
  
“Affirmative.”   
  
Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip. “Do you even understand what you’re asking for?”  
  
Slowly, the light in Soundwave’s visor shifted toward Bluestreak, meeting his gaze with more courage than Soundwave had shown all evening. “Affirmative.”   
  
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Stop that,” he demanded, the chastisement falling a little too easily from his lips. “If you’re going to talk to me, I want that mask gone. I want to know I’m talking to a person, not a machine.”   
  
Silence.   
  
Soundwave stared at him, even the sound of his ventilations stilled. His fingers curled tightly around the broom and dustpan.   
  
And then his battlemask slid away, revealing the lower half of his face once more, the perfect shape of his lips, his cute nasal structure, the blush staining his cheeks. The visor remained, but Bluestreak wasn’t going to argue about that. Maybe it was permanent, maybe he couldn’t see without it.   
  
A thrill chased itself around Bluestreak’s spark.   
  
“So,” he said as his glossa swept over his lips, an unexpected hunger curling in his internals, like the first time Jazz had knelt for him. “You do understand.”   
  
Soundwave’s head dipped minutely. He, too, wet his lips. Bluestreak tracked the motion of his glossa, the way it left a sheen of moisture behind.   
  
“Why me?” Bluestreak asked as he dragged his optics back to Soundwave’s visor.   
  
The flush deepened. It was unfairly cute. For a mech as dangerous as Soundwave to blush of all things, where Bluestreak lacked the words to describe how adorable that was.   
  
Soundwave’s vents quickened. His armor fluttered. His mouth opened and closed, and his vocalizer clicked as though he was engaging it, but faltering in what to say.   
  
Adorable.   
  
Bluestreak leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t know the answer to that,” he murmured, keeping his tone warm and silken, sure to vibrate in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “You want me to help you figure that out, don’t you?”   
  
A shiver visibly raced across Soundwave’s armor. His head dipped, almost a bow. “… Yes,” he answered, his vocals no longer the dull monotone, but something soft and delicate.   
  
Bluestreak almost groaned.   
  
Jazz was as playful and disobedient as a sub could be. Bluestreak enjoyed their times together. He enjoyed twirling Jazz about his finger, and turning the saboteur into a sated mess. Mastery of Jazz was a special talent in itself.   
  
But Soundwave…  
  
Primus, was there ever a mech who radiated a need to be dominated more than him? It all but bled from his field, from his seams. He would submit beautifully. He would never be disobedient. He would take joy in it.   
  
Bluestreak worked his intake. He mastered his fans, so the sound of them spinning faster wouldn’t be audible.   
  
Caution lingered. Bluestreak might be tempted, but he didn’t trust Soundwave. He didn’t trust  _this_.   
  
He firmed his jaw and straightened, pinning Soundwave with a Look, one that never failed to weaken Jazz’s knees.   
  
“We’re under a truce, a treaty, maybe even something that won’t get broken because of a standstill in negotiations, but I’m not stupid,” Bluestreak said as his doorwings flicked up and rigid, mimicking Prowl at his most stern.   
  
He moved out from behind the bar, sliding through the swinging door, delighted as Soundwave turned to watch him. He was a natural at this. Training him would be easy.   
  
“There’s a reason you’re tagged as a loyalist,” Bluestreak added as he moved closer, until he trapped Soundwave between himself and the bar.   
  
Soundwave loomed over him. But Bluestreak still felt as though he were the only person in the room who was a threat. The dustpan rattled.   
  
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bluestreak purred.   
  
Soundwave’s head dipped, as subordinate as he could be without kneeling. “Loyalty to Megatron separate from devotion to Master.”   
  
“You think you can have both?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled, but it wasn’t meant to be a sound of amusement. “Maybe you can. Since the war is over and all. You don’t have to choose. Unless Megatron tells you that you can’t. Regardless, I don’t trust you. And there can be no partnership without trust. It’s the golden rule. And lesson number one.”   
  
“Lesson,” Soundwave echoed, and his engine rumbled. “Refusal or acceptance offered?”   
  
Bluestreak’s lips curved into a smile. “We’ll see. One step at a time, I think. I’m intrigued at least. Though it could’ve started out better. I don’t particularly like being stalked.”   
  
Soundwave’s head dipped further, as though he couldn’t meet Bluestreak’s optics. “I apologize. Soundw-- I am unfamiliar with dating protocols.”   
  
“Well, it’s a learning curve.” Bluestreak leaned in, a promise to touch that he didn’t deliver. “And I suspect you’re a fast learner. But for now, we have a lounge to clean and we both have some thinking to do.”   
  
Soundwave’s fans stalled. “Understood.”   
  
“And?” Bluestreak leaned in closer, his ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel of Soundwave’s dock.   
  
A shiver fluttered through Soundwave’s armor. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”   
  
Bluestreak’s smile could not get any larger. Maybe this didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the weirdest thing to happen to him in ages.   
  
And maybe he was going to dive head first into it, because why not? The war was over, probably for good. He was trying to move on, trying to learn what it meant to be live.   
  
Might as well start with this.   
  


****


	3. Chapter 3

The shiver crawling up his spine was Soundwave’s only indication he was not only no longer alone, but he was being stalked as well. He could feel the incisive gaze boring into him, felt the menace lurking in the intensity of the stare.   
  
He stopped mid-stride, head swiveling toward a nearby alley, choked with shadows and debris, and no one. He didn’t for one second think it wasn’t occupied. That he was within a block of Bluestreak’s apartment wasn’t a coincidence.   
  
He knew what danger skulked in the night.   
  
“State purpose,” Soundwave said to the dark.   
  
His shoulder itched for his sonic cannon, but like all of his other visible weapons, it was at home, in his weapons locker. All he could rely on now was centuries of hand to hand and a talent which had made him infamous.   
  
A chuckle slithered out of the dim. “My, my Sounders. You’re getting better at that.” The voice crawled into Soundwave’s audials and made itself a home.   
  
Jazz melted out of the dark, not a wisp of biolight or optical brightness to be found. How he could hide that much white, Soundwave would never know. He suspected Jazz had camouflaging paint, the sort controlled by nanites, that helped him change his colors at will. He wouldn’t be the first spy to rely on deception and tricks.   
  
“What gave me away?” Jazz asked, his vocalizations just shy of a purr.   
  
Jazz started to circle Soundwave, and no fool, Soundwave slowly shifted to maintain optical contact. He didn’t trust Jazz anywhere behind him.   
  
“Menace,” Soundwave replied.   
  
Jazz chuckled. “Ya could taste it, huh? Good.” His glossa swept over his lips, and his grin was sharp, for all that his denta were blunt. “So I know where you’re going, and I know why. I just thought I’d give you a little warning before I let you on your way.”   
  
Soundwave tilted his head. “Threats defy treaty.”   
  
“I didn’t say I was threatening you. Geez, Soundwave. Don’t put words into my mouth. That’s kind of rude.” Jazz’s laughter was harsher than it should be. He looked up at Soundwave, hands on his hips, smug and sure. “I’m just making sure we have an understanding.”   
  
“No harm intended to Bluestreak,” Soundwave replied.   
  
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Jazz lifted a hand, rapped the back of his knuckles on Soundwave’s empty dock. “Because you’re sincere, right? This isn’t some twisted game to break his spark. You want what he has to offer. And you ain’t gonna hurt him on purpose.”   
  
Concern leaked into the edges of Jazz’s field. This was a warning, yes. Threat, too. But for good reason. Jazz cared for Bluestreak. That much was obvious. They were partners, maybe not monogamous, but they meant something to one another.   
  
Soundwave dipped his head. “Affirmative.”   
  
Jazz’s grin slid into something more genuine. “Then I guess that makes us friends.” He backed up a pace, tucking his hand back on his hip. “Have fun tonight. And tell Blue I said hello.”   
  
Soundwave never took his gaze off Jazz as he edged around the saboteur and continued down the recently repaved road. Jazz watched him the entire time, that grin on his face, a glint in his visor. And when Soundwave looked away only for a moment, just to make sure he was going in the right direction, Jazz vanished, back into the shadows which birthed him.   
  
The chill clotted his hydraulic fluid.   
  
Warning received.   
  
He hurried to Bluestreak’s apartment, pinging the door to announce his arrival. Jazz’s delay had cooled his eagerness, but the moment the door slid open and Bluestreak appeared in the opening, it all came flooding back. Anticipation coiled like a hot hunger   
in his tanks, and it took several long moments for his vocalizer to engage.   
  
“You’re right on time!” Bluestreak said with a blinding smile. “Come on in.” He stepped aside, leaving room for Soundwave to enter.   
  
Soundwave moved into the well-lit space, lights giving off a warm glow, and the front room filled with plush surfaces. There was a large entertainment center and a couch designed for a mech with sensory panels. An empty space in the middle of the room suggested it was occasionally occupied by something. Doors to the other rooms were closed.   
  
“You found it okay? Wait, why am I even asking you that. Of course you did. You’re Soundwave.” Bluestreak chuckled and the door slid shut, beeping to indicate it was locked. “Have a seat wherever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.”   
  
“Preference to stand,” Soundwave replied, his spark hammering faster in his chassis, a thrill running across his armor.   
  
Bluestreak shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have some energon in the cupboard if you’re running low.”   
  
Soundwave shook his head. It felt like the moments were being stretched out on purpose, and now he waited on bolts and brackets, for this thing that had always been nothing more than a dream.   
  
“Fuel adequate.”   
  
Bluestreak gave him a long look. He moved to stand in front of Soundwave, his arms folded under his bumper. “Did you review the materials I sent you?”  
  
In depth. Soundwave had read them twice, just to ensure his understanding. He’d devoured every page, every line, an enthusiasm building in his spark and desire licking like lightning through his sensory net.   
  
“Affirmative.”   
  
Bluestreak’s optics narrowed. His field flickered, pressing inward as though it were surrounding Soundwave, choking him, claiming him. It was thick and heavy and far stronger than it had any right to be.   
  
It was chastisement, as much as any clipped word would be. Soundwave knew, immediately, what mistake he’d made.   
  
Soundwave worked his intake. “Yes.”   
  
The weight of Bluestreak’s field eased. “Good. And did you understand everything? Do you have any questions? Is there anything you’re uncertain about? You can ask me anything anytime, but I want to make sure you know the basics right now before we start.”   
  
Soundwave’s hands began to tremble. “Comprehension ob--” He paused at Bluestreak’s glare and dipped his head. “I understand.”   
  
“I can see that you do.” Bluestreak’s voice dipped in timbre, to something lower, resonating better in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “I have five rules, Soundwave. Five unbreakable rules. Three of which are general. And two are specific to you. If you aren’t willing to agree to these five rules, then whatever this is can’t happen. Understand?”   
  
Soundwave worked his intake. He nodded.   
  
“Verbal consent,” Bluestreak urged.   
  
Soundwave’s hands drew into fists. They loosened. “I understand.”   
  
“Good.” Bluestreak uncrossed his arms and looked up at Soundwave. “First, my general rules. Number one, nothing we do together under the terms of our contract is to be discussed outside of our partnership unless agreed upon beforehand. Number two, you will refer to me as ‘sir’ or ‘master’ unless otherwise indicated. And lastly, you will use your safeword if you need to. No exceptions. Clear?”   
  
Simple rules. Safe rules. Easy enough to agree to.   
  
The heat building in Soundwave’s lines turned to a boil, filling his internals. His fans kicked on, but hopefully, too quiet for Bluestreak to hear. Bluestreak’s firm tone, his uncompromising resolve, the command in his optics… it made Soundwave’s knees wobble.   
  
“I will agree,” Soundwave said, forcing the words past static in his vocalizer and the spinning of the status quo in his processor.   
  
Bluestreak smiled and stepped closer, his fingertips brushing over Soundwave’s dock. “Good. Because I, in turn, agree to follow those terms as well. I can keep a secret, as you well know, and I vow to always heed your safeword. That, Soundwave is how we start to build trust.”   
  
He couldn’t stop looking at Bluestreak’s fingers. His sensors strained toward the light touch, barely tangible, but commanding for it.   
  
“And the other rules?” Soundwave asked.   
  
Bluestreak’s fingers rapped a light rhythm on Soundwave’s dock. “You will always come alone. I expect there to be no cassettes in your dock during a session. This is not a group effort.”   
  
Fair enough.   
  
“And lastly, this belongs to me.” Bluestreak’s fingers dragged up, until they brushed over Soundwave’s mouthguard, feather light. “The moment you step into my domain, this is mine. You will remove it. I don’t want to see it. I will know, by your behavior, that it’s your submission to me. Your agreement. Understand?”   
  
Soundwave answered by sliding his mouthplate aside, baring the lower half of his face to the warmth of the room, and the delicate touch of Bluestreak’s fingertips. He smelled of gunoil and polish, of sticky-sweet treats and the tang of rust crumbles. He smelled good enough to taste, and Soundwave longed to wrap his glossa around the tip of them.   
  
He refrained.   
  
Bluestreak’s smile curved into devious angles. “Oh, you’re perfect, did you know that?” he murmured as his thumb stroked Soundwave’s bottom lip. “You say you’re new to this, but you seem to know all the right things to do. Maybe it just comes natural to you. It does to some mechs, and that’s okay. Everyone marches to their own beat.”   
  
Soundwave’s engine rumbled. His ex-vents quickened, puffing over Bluestreak’s fingers from his slightly parted lips. He held Bluestreak’s gaze, feeling as though the weight of it was a command in itself.   
  
“More?” Soundwave asked hopefully, Bluestreak’s thumb bobbing where it rested on his bottom lip.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “Yes. Eventually.” His hand slid away, and Soundwave immediately mourned the loss. “But we’re going to start simple and easy. Slow and careful. And I’ve got a contract I want you to look over a little later, to decide your dos and donts. Trust is the most important thing.”   
  
“Agreed,” Soundwave replied, and the heat boiled under his armor, static in his lines and crowding around his spark. “For now?”   
  
“For now I want you to kneel,” Bluestreak said and pointed to the floor in front of him. “I want to see how well you respond to commands. What really revs your engines and turns you inside out.”   
  
A keen almost slipped out of Soundwave’s intake. He started to lower himself before Bluestreak even finished talking, joints creaking and hydraulics hissing as he knelt, arms at his sides, his face tilted up toward Bluestreak. Like this, Bluestreak was taller, but Soundwave did not feel threatened. He felt owned. Possessed. Mastered.   
  
Worries slid off his shoulders. Heat pooled in his tanks, warming his entire frame. His spark rippled.   
  
“Good pet,” Bluestreak murmured, his optics warm and approving. He lifted a hand and Soundwave didn’t so much as flinch, instead leaning eagerly into the palm that rested on top of his head. “Your safe word is whirlwind. If at any point you become uncomfortable, stressed, or just want to stop for any reason, all you have to do is say it.”   
  
Bluestreak’s hand was a warm, welcome weight. Both gentle and commanding all at once, it sent a flicker of peace through Soundwave’s frame, a tide of warmth that boiled him over and soothed the tremors of his spark.   
  
Soundwave dimmed his visor and focused on Bluestreak’s voice, the soft cadence of it, and the press of Bluestreak’s field, wrapping around him like a blanket. It felt like relief, like coming home, like everything he never knew he needed until it was right in front of him.   
  
All he had to do was seize it.   
  
Soundwave ex-vented and sank into the kneel.   
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.


End file.
